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Omar Kawash May 2015
In a time,
when men were the superheroes,
born in an unconventional location,

a young girl, unknown to the future
she was destined to,
was born with a uniqueness
unfound in all people, a superpower
of empathy
and as she grew,

the world knew
she was imbued
as a living embodiment of legends:

Athena's wisdom,
beauty that surpassed the goddess Aphrodite,
conversational skills that made Hermes envious,
and strength that Hercules
could never attain.

As she approached an age, when her parents would
trust her to be guardian,
her powers manifested.
This incredible child was now a woman.

With the ability to heal those in need: she could expunge
poison that had afflicted a person,
even their hearts,
a God-given gift for those most sacred;
her correspondences exponentially developed,
able to connect in all languages, fueled by her empathetic nature,
this allowed all who interacted with her to trust her for she radiates sincerity.

Now, fully grown, this super-no-

This Wonder Woman had retired her duties
to save the world, not forsake it, but,
to train Wonder Girl, her daughter,
to unlock the latent abilities her mother had passed on to her.

She still looks up at the Higher Power
and realizes her duty to provide
the world justice is not over
but only beginning.

Her holy spirit was not unacknowledged
and was gifted
a bulletproof bracelet,
forged by the most skilled craftsman by direction
of all that is wise and healing.

Given to her to wear
so that nothing could halt her
as she continues
her fate to provide the world a humanity
that could only come from
an intrinsically true
dear heart.
zebra Jul 2016
did you know
that the
self effulgent light
of God it self
is **** shaped

as above so below

the inner revelation
******* above...light woven
******* below ...flesh woven

does this not infer
a magical operation
perhaps a hermetic
ritual of adoration
perhaps a puja
to the ****
with ornate
kaleidoscopic mandalas
replete with wrinkles
and folds
emerald toilet bowls
silk *** wipe
with full color florals
to be ingratiated
by **** art prints
and to be fussed over
and judged
by certified *******
clergy

then to cleanse
with fragrant ointments
that it may remain
unsullied by its
birthing labors
voluptuous
smoldering
fecundations
for purities sake
as god remains
free of limitation
it too
must remain
free of its forgetful
tarnished children


i build  temple of ****
high above the people
the little *****

do they
even know
where they come from
how they may
devote themselves
to the grandeur
of the solar ****
and its bestowals
of clumpy torpedoes

the catechism
of the  solar ****

to know
to adore
to prostrate

to proselytize
the glory of ****
to the
for corners
of the earth

to be faithful
unto it
to be obedient
and present
your *******
for ritual manicures
by the true initiates
the fussy
******* faeries  

those who have
the secret knowledge
and remain true
to the lore
and precepts
set forth
of divine correspondences
to fully appreciate
its eminence
its glory
and have no
God before it
that mercy
will follow them
all the days
of there lives
emmaline Apr 2016
Kurt Queller uses narrative criticism to analyze Mark 3:1-6, the healing miracle story in the gospel of Mark.  Queller’s narrative criticism includes “echoes of the Exodus liberation narrative” , echoes of Deuteronomy’s covenant language and Sabbatical provisions , intratextual echoes in Mark , and independent echoes in the other synoptic gospels.  Queller uses these echoes to fill in the gaps he finds in the story of Jesus healing the man with the withered hand on the Sabbath.
In the beginning of his criticism, Queller lists the gaps in Mark 3:1-6’s narrative that he seeks to fill: the meaning of the withered hand, Jesus’ reason for healing on the Sabbath, His reason for considering the withered hand life-threatening, why it is a choice between good and evil, et cetera.  He begins filling these gaps by referencing intertextual echoes of Mark 3:1-6 in Exodus.  Jesus’ command to the man with the withered hand in Mark 3:5, “Stretch out your hand,” is echoed in Exodus 14:16 where God commands Moses, “stretch out your hand.” When the man with the withered hand stretches out his hand, his hand is restored. Likewise, when Moses stretches out his hand, the Reed Sea parts, resulting in the restoration of the Israelites’ freedom.
Queller’s reference to this echo in Exodus, paired with other echoes he mentions in Deuteronomy, helped me begin to understand Jesus’ insistence on healing the withered hand. Queller was able to use the echoes to fill in the gaps I previously could not fill. In Deuteronomy 15, God’s covenant requires liberal lending and debt forgiveness to the poor on the Sabbath year. God reminds the Israelites that He delivered them from Egypt in verse 15, and He claims that this is the reason for His liberal Sabbatical law. Thus, this Deuteronomic prescription for Sabbath observance is a continuation of the Exodus liberation narrative. Queller mentions these echoes in Exodus and Deuteronomy to draw a larger narrative framework for understanding Mark’s controversial healing story.
In my initial reading, I recognized that a withered hand is not necessarily a matter of life and death. Like Queller, this was a gap that I initially set out to fill. However, I was unable to fill this gap in a way that completely satisfied my confusion on the matter. Queller’s larger narrative framework for this passage led me to a better understanding of why Jesus considered the withered hand worthy to heal on the Sabbath.
According to Queller’s filling of the gaps, the withered hand is an affliction that can be compared to the Israelites’ enslavement in Egypt. The withered hand also embodies the economic predicament of the poor, who remain enslaved to their debt to the rich.  Such enslavement could be a death sentence, which is why the Sabbath requires the liberation of slaves and debt forgiveness of the poor. It seems plausible to me that a withered hand could cause a man to be enslaved and/or perpetually poor. This line of reasoning, provided by Queller’s larger narrative framework, allowed me to truly see how the Sabbath could require Jesus’ healing of the withered hand.
Another gap Queller and I similarly set out to fill is the question of what constitutes as doing good and what constitutes as doing evil on the Sabbath. This gap also arises from Mark 3:4, in which Jesus asks, “Which is lawful on the Sabbath: to do good or to do evil, to save life or to ****?” (Mark 3:4 NIV). In his analysis of this particular part of this particular verse, Queller points out a small important detail that I originally missed. Mark 3:4 does not set the frame for a passive, inner choice between good and evil.  The literal wording says, “to do good or to do evil.” The choice between good and evil on the Sabbath thereby requires action.
While recognizing that required action is problematic for the restful nature of the Sabbath, Queller supports his assertion by referencing Deuteronomy 30. Deuteronomy 30’s prescription for obedience of the Sabbath repeats the active command, “do it.”  Queller illustrates the parallelism between Mark and Deuteronomy by placing Deuteronomy 30:14 and Mark 3:4-5 in a figure side-by-side.  Deuteronomy 30:14 says, “The word is very near to you, in your mouth, and in your heart, and in your hands, to do it.” With this commandment as the framework, Mark 3:4-5 spells out the Pharisees’ failure to do good; It says, “But they were silent . . . grieved at their hardness of heart, he said to the man: ‘Stretch out your hand.’ And he stretched it out.”
From this, Queller concludes, “The ‘word’ to be done is already ‘in [their] mouth’ – but they refuse to say anything in response; it is ‘in [their] heart’ – but their heart is hardened against it. It is ‘in [their] hands, to do it’ – but as Jesus turns again to address the man, our attention is directed back to an inert hand, that, in its current withered state, seems unlikely to do anything.”  From this I am now able to conclude that which constitutes as doing “good” on the Sabbath is acting on the word. The word is completely accessible to us, and we must use our mouths, hearts, and hands to act upon it.
This gap of good and evil action that Queller helps fill also provides further evidence for the necessity of Jesus’ healing of the withered hand. Since the hands are required to carry out good action in obedience of the covenant, the withered hand is an affliction that can breach said covenant. Queller asserts that the withered hand symbolizes “the tangible embodiment of [the Pharisees] unwillingness, despite the ‘nearness’ of the word, to do it.”  Jesus, by necessity, must heal this affliction to show the Pharisees how to act according to the law of the Sabbath; “The stretching out of the hand then becomes a ‘witness against’ those who have chosen to forgo or even prohibit action because of exclusively sacral concerns.”  Without the preceding narrative frame of Deuteronomy, such significance of the withered hand for the Sabbath covenant was impossible for me to comprehend.
Though Queller is certainly helpful in providing evidence that enables understanding of the withered hand’s significance, there are parts of his criticism that I find contradictory and unhelpful. This occurs when he references echoes in Exodus and Deuteronomy to provide a framework for understanding the Pharisees’ silence in Mark 3:4 and hardness of hearts in Mark 3:5. He first relates the Pharisees’ hardened heart in response to Jesus’ plea in Mark to the Pharaoh’s hardened heart in response to Moses’ numerous pleas in Exodus. In my concordance work, I also made this connection. However, Queller and I differ in the conclusions we draw from this observation.
Queller draws from Deuteronomy to provide framework in conjunction with Exodus for understanding Mark’s interpretation of the Sabbatical law. He references Deuteronomy 29:19, which warns against thinking one can receive the blessings of the covenant while breaching it in the inner wanderings of the heart. This passive infidelity of the covenant brings God’s curse to the innocent as well as the guilty. Queller uses this context to explain why his literal translation says Jesus “co-aggrieved”  with the Pharisees because of their silence and hard hearts. The Pharisees’ passive, inner breach of the covenant invoked God’s curse on them, as well as the innocent Jesus, according to Queller.  
When I analyzed Jesus’ reaction to the hard hearts of the Pharisees in comparison to God’s reaction to that of the Pharaoh, I realized that the same Greek word was used to describe Jesus’ anger and God’s wrath. However, the consequences of Jesus’ anger and God’s wrath do not relate as clearly as Queller would lead one to believe. As a result of the Pharaoh’s hard heart, God’s wrath leads to the Pharaoh’s ultimate demise. Jesus’ resulting anger from the Pharisees’ hard hearts, on the other hand, catalyzes his decision to heal the withered hand. This action ultimately leads to Jesus’ destruction alone. Jesus, the innocent character, does not fall to the mutual destruction of the Pharisees, per Queller’s argument. I see no destruction of the Pharisees at all. Instead, Jesus restores God’s blessing of the guilty by becoming the recipient of God’s wrath in their place.
This conclusion, though differing from Queller, is consistent with his interpretation of the withered hand. Queller writes, “The withered hand embodies covenant curses invoked against those refusing to ‘open [their] hands’ in liberal lending, instead killing the poor by freezing credit in view of an impending sabbatical debt amnesty” . If the withered hand embodies God’s curse against the Pharisees, then Jesus revokes this curse when he cures the withered hand. Furthermore, the larger narrative framework of Mark’s gospel echoes this conclusion. Jesus’ crucifixion ultimately pays the debt of sinners and liberates them from God’s wrath.
Kurt Queller’s narrative criticism uses intertextuality, a narrative tool that “evokes resonances of the earlier text beyond those explicitly cited”  and “requires the reader to recover unstated or suppressed correspondences between the two texts.”  Such intertextual echoes he references from Deuteronomy and Exodus provide a larger background for interpreting Mark’s healing controversy. This granted me the ability to fill many gaps in the narrative that I was unable to fill prior to reading Queller’s criticism. In a footnote, he explains that his “metalepsis” uses such intertextual echoes for analysis, and, “In narrative, the resultant new figuration operates at what Robert M. Fowler calls the ‘discourse level.’ Metaleptic signification is thus transacted between an implied narrator and an implied audience – as it were, behind the backs of the narrative’s ‘story-level’ participants.”
The intertextual and metaleptic tools that Queller uses for his narrative criticism have proven to be very insightful and helpful for my understanding Mark 3:1-6 in an entirely new way. Even as I disagree with Queller on certain parts of his argument, these points of disagreement pushed me to deepen my own individual reading of the text. In comparing my argument to Queller’s, I realized just how far my initial interpretation was able to go. This narrative criticism answered a lot of my questions and filled many gaps. However, most of my conclusions about the implications and ultimate consequences of the text remain unshaken.  
Bibliography
Queller, Kurt. “Stretch Out Your Hand!” Echo and Metalepsis in Mark’s Sabbath Healing Controversy. Journal of Biblical Literature 129, no. 4 (2010): 737-58.
This is a narrative criticism in conversation with Kurt Queller's criticism. The in-text footnotes didn't transfer to this website but all quotes are referencing his work, which is cited at the end.
In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;
I hear my echo in the echoing wood--
A lord of nature weeping to a tree,
I live between the heron and the wren,
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall,
That place among the rocks--is it a cave,
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,
And in broad day the midnight come again!
A man goes far to find out what he is--
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark,dark my light, and darker my desire.
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
[On my birthday]
                
                
At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful.
Amelia Jo Anne Jan 2014
you are a fool, Sophia. As I look up at these city lights, every neon sign seems to advertise you; they all remind me of what I'm missing out on. I pass strangers and hear them whispering your tender mercies: "so?" "fee" "ahhh..." I may be being quite forward so early on in our correspondences, but the theory that you are a scrap of paper that someone would allow to slip through their fingers is ridiculous to me. I say that because even after only meeting you once, by such a fortunate and faithful chance, I wanted to write screenplays, novellas, and entire manuscripts only based on how beautiful your name sounds when I say it. I will be absorbed in everything you admit me to learn about you. I only hope for your amusement when you discover my own scorched trails. I'm stupefied by your compliments, and I will catch every drop of your defrosting heart on my tongue. I felt so stupid but I beamed in pride seeing I could make you blush as pink as the roses on the bush behind you... such a delicate, feminine, sensitive color; white blossoming into red, purity blooming into passion. How I wish I could be the one to awaken a passion in you. I'm terribly sorry if I'm smothering, but you've an expert pen dipped in ink of naivety... in meeting you I crossed the border between respectable me and questionable sanity: the Sophia Line (your kiss would be turpentine, **** anything I used to be to become anything, everything you need from me). Ah... fee so... you've given me a lot to live up to. xo. Josephine.
http://imma-duck.deviantart.com/

reply to earlier poem "sophia"
irinia Feb 2023
by Theodore Roethke

In a dark time, the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;   
I hear my echo in the echoing wood—
A lord of nature weeping to a tree.
I live between the heron and the wren,   
Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What’s madness but nobility of soul
At odds with circumstance? The day’s on fire!   
I know the purity of pure despair,
My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.   
That place among the rocks—is it a cave,   
Or winding path? The edge is what I have.

A steady storm of correspondences!
A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,   
And in broad day the midnight come again!   
A man goes far to find out what he is—
Death of the self in a long, tearless night,   
All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.

Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.   
My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,   
Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?
A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.   
The mind enters itself, and God the mind,   
And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
courtesy and gratitude to my English literature teacher,  G. V., the great Shakespear scholar and translator I have the honour to know
Drew Ellis Apr 2013
1.
Dear Penny,
Today I saw two sparrows playing underneath a tree
that is still naked from the winter.  They hopped an
chirped and pecked at each other.  They had no
worries, no cares in the world.  I was envious of
them.  I wished to be that free.  I need to get away
from this place.  It makes me hollow.
Always,
Milo


2.
Dear Penny,
Do you remember that night when we were in San
Tropez?  We'd had too much Bordeaux, and found
ourselves laughing at the moon in the middle of the
night.  We saw turtles laying eggs in the sand, their
progeny made to wait until being birthed back into
the sea.  Why do turtles always do that?  Is it
fate?  Is it futility?  I think it's because of fear.
Always,
Milo


3.
Dear Penny,
I'm sitting in a coffee shop, trying to relax.  A man
sitting at the table next to mine has a tattoo of a
clown on his forearm.  It is very intricately drawn.
But as I was looking at it, the clown shifted its gaze
and started to laugh at me.  It has since stopped
laughing, but no matter how hard I try, I can't get it
to stop staring.
Always,
Milo


4.
Dear Penny,
Let's face it, all hope is dead.  Free will has led to
abandonment.  Good people go hungry, the troubled
are revered.  Love has no bounds, adultery is
standard.  Since we have fallen from the pedestal of
the scarred, fear lies in the hands of the just.  Who's
to say why we were.  We just are, and I'm tired.
Always,
Milo


5.
Dear Penny,
Consider yourself lucky you're not here.  The
streets have become a fetid barrage of scrambled
and frantic contemplations.  Am I a rogue, in search
of vigilant prosperity?  Or does my face just lack a
certain boyish charm?  I blame the church and its
benign stance on water purity.  Nevermore...
Always,
Milo


6.
Dear Penny,
Please excuse my attitude in previous
correspondences, as I'm sure you noticed an
abrupt change in my demeanor.  Sometimes I feel
weak.  Sometimes I wonder if thinking is the right
thing to do.  To act would be an adventure.  But
worry not; the doctors have given me a clean bill of
health.  I remain.
Always,
Milo
This is not going to be a poem. Please bear with me as I try to explain something important to me. I am getting responses (Hello Poetry email) from children. I want for the Hello Poetry community to pull together and find a solution. Some of these kids are expressing to me that they do not have anyone that cares about them.

Since my NDE I can tell you that this is not unusual for me. On my property I have all sorts of animals that regularly congregate in my yard. Many different species, sometimes animals who you would think are dangerous to one another can often be seen together on my property. I’ll leave it at that other than to say that many of these wild animals have become my friends. They innately trust me and I trust them. Everything from bears, coyotes, deer, turkeys, hawks, eagles, turtles, snakes, rabbits, lizards, squirrels, and raccoons can often be seen in my yard or on my porches. You are going to say that I feed them. I do not. My property is very small but it backs up to a property that is leased and protected by the Army Corp of Engineers. I only mention this because I do believe that humans are sometimes curious about me too. Maybe this is why these children are writing to me.

I respond to these kids and tell them that it is inappropriate for me to talk to them. As one user pointed out to me, a child has a completely different mindset than an adult has. A child is a precious thing and so impressionable.  Like some of the animals that appear in my life, sometimes I help them in some way. If their injured I either help them myself or get them medical attention. If something in their environment threatens anyone of these animals I try to mitigate the threat.  That’s not said to put a feather in my cap. It’s just how I view life now. So now we come to these kids. Just like my animal friends, I feel concern for these kids. I have seen some of the writing about there being a writer on this forum who is not being a good steward when it comes to the children on this site. In the hopes to promote a better stewardship and responsibility toward the children on this site I propose that we pool our resources together and make a concerted effort to provide a safe haven for these kids. What I would like to see is a few of you woman step forward and offer to mediate for us guys who receive email from a child. Someone that we can forward the info of the child to so that a motherly individual can take part in gently leading these children into a safe or safer mode of communication.  I’m sure that I am not the only one that they are emailing. It could be that a few are not even kids. I don’t know. But like the animals that sometimes are curious enough to come to my hand when I reach out to them, there’s just something in me that I cannot turn away or ignore these kids. I need help. Maybe you guys could organize a plan for communicating with some of these kids. It just is not safe for them to be writing to complete strangers.
Email me if you feel compelled to help or if this is happening to you as well. Here’s an example of one of the correspondences that I’ve had…

A….redacted  15h
Follow me on Instagram please ? || @..... redacted
***** Shakysphere  14h
Hi and thanks for the invite but I don’t chat with kids. Have a great day and please be careful talking to strangers.
A…redacted  14h
Okay ; sorry for disturbing. You
***** Shakysphere  13h
Not a problem. Just be careful on the web.
A….redacted  13h
Got you - thanks for looking out for me not many people care about me

The above is a 14 year old.  
They say it takes a community to raise a child. I’ve raised two mostly by myself.  Any suggestions or ideas on how we as a community can reach out to these kids and help them and protect them would be appreciated.
Christina Murphy Jul 2014
i'd like to send you something,
to your house, if you permit.
it might be something small,
and light enough to fit

inside a standard business envelope,
so i may drop it down the *****,
of the mailbox on my street
avoid the lines at UPS,

all the clutter and the mess,
yes, i think it would be best
if it required just one minute and one stamp
to leave this something for you down the ramp.

if you allow, then i shall wait
check and recheck the current date,
meticulously calculate
the hours til it reaches you.

i'll pray that it arrives intact,
but please forgive me if in fact
you find it's perfect edges cracked
by the shipping and the handling.

or should the weather of the spring
sustain, and should this unforgiving rain
leave drops like kisses in the paper threads
or should the ink have bled,

accept, i beg, my small imperfect gift
allow your gentle hands to sift
through stacks of correspondences,
allow me please, to the suspense

of sending you, by mail a part
of a handled, weather-beaten heart.
Nightwolf Apr 2015
In a dark time, the eye begins to see,

I meet my shadow in the deepening shade;

I hear my echo in the echoing wood--

A lord of nature weeping to a tree.

I live between the heron and the wren,

Beasts of the hill and serpents of the den.

What's madness but nobility of soul

At odds with circumstance? The day's on fire!

I know the purity of pure despair,

My shadow pinned against a sweating wall.

That place among the rocks--is it a cave,

Or a winding path? The edge is what I have.



A steady storm of correspondences!

A night flowing with birds, a ragged moon,

And in broad day the midnight come again!

A man goes far to find out what he is--

Death of the self in a long, tearless night,

All natural shapes blazing unnatural light.



Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.

My soul, like some heat-maddened summer fly,

Keeps buzzing at the sill. Which I is I?

A fallen man, I climb out of my fear.

The mind enters itself, and God the mind,



And one is One, free in the tearing wind.
Qualyxian Quest Jul 2019
pizza place poetry
              my Polish wish
                          exoplanets!
Andrew Jun 2019
A “mailbox” is
a funny thing.
It used to be a means
of keeping in touch
with the ones that we loved—
a tool for connections
and correspondences.
What do we even have
mailboxes for now?
Stores send out coupons
for us to accumulate
goods now.
Credit card companies
send out reminders
to pay off our debts now.
Everyone’s circulating love,
but of status and wealth now.
We’ve become so consumed
with our phones, with fashion
and greed...
how?


A. I. Myles   19 June, 2o19
@athenaeumthoughts
There can be no end
To writing essays
And correspondences
Despite categorical imperatives
To produce an archive
Of the mind is already
Chronologically irrelevant
When erudition is neglected
And ambitions are deflected
Masterful articulations
Of our feelings and emotions
Are often generally equated
With only the most
Outlandish of suggestions
I do not comprehend you my love
You do not comprehend me.
  Distance grows, correspondences cease.  
  As a sunflower inhales the bars behind which,  
  Her brown bud blooms in the longing for the Sun.
I do not know you my love,
You do not know me.  
And winter like a cat emerges
in the shadows of the green.  
   Her eyes glow like emeralds  
     Made from frozen teardrops,
   brought by these cold words.  

I do not call for you my love,
you do not call for me

  While the waterfall dazzles
  in its own silvery glee  
    My metaphors fail to touch you,
  though this water  
    Flowing through my fingertips,
  reminds me the touch of your hair.
There can be no end
To writing essays
And correspondences
Despite categorical imperatives
To create a viable alternative
To the inexorable premises
When contemporary narratives
Are chronologically irrelevant
When erudition is neglected
And ambitions are deflected
Masterful articulations
Of our feelings and emotions
Are often generally neglected
And somehow the most
Outrageously bad behaviors
Are ubiquitously imitated
Qualyxian Quest Jun 2019
morning sunlight, lying in bed
       difficult days to come ahead
               Fr. Greeley gratefully read...

                            correspondences.
These concrete visions fill me with cognitive dissonance despite the diagonal whiplash inherent in walking these crowded streets swarming with dionysian eye candy
So i engage in correspondences with my own despondence and write symbolic sermons upon paper napkins describing indefinitely my plans to attend the universal assembly of neurotic narcissists convention
Until this dissolute disappointment directs me to dance with my sick eyed inner child whose tiny eyeballs look like two pools of quicksand hopelessly beckoning to the uninvited parts of my psyche to at the very least acknowledge him
Quick to the rescue my dissident anima rushes to embrace me as she pulls me blindly inside her waif-like body into the thickness of her essence where bliss is overtaken only by an oceanic reverie for the infantile irresponsibility of this unseemly situation
Eventually we begin to disentangle because differentiation always comes at a price too steep for me to climb and too stubborn for me to negotiate with or base my already unstable sanity upon
As the angle of the Earth to the Stars is relatively unknowable since it all depends on where in the universe you are at any given moment of creation that you wish to measure and compare the length, height and depth of your own arm to

— The End —